


baby, it's violence

by phile



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Hate Sex, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Game(s), Sort Of, Violent Sex, lapslock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phile/pseuds/phile
Summary: for them, the game doesn’t end inbound. it buries here, in the grimy steam of a locker room, between bruised lips and blood on teeth.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	baby, it's violence

**Author's Note:**

> procrastinating on atsukita fic so i wrote this little thing in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep until i posted it. frankly i should be embarrassed by this but i can't tell after three redbulls. anyway atsusuna nation i brought you the hate sex pwp you didn't ask for
> 
> title is from [violence](https://open.spotify.com/track/31XtwSNrnxzSPlt2k6pAc6?si=5qvYp00TRcCPltkyWz094w) by grimes

_you wanna make me bad, pay me back_

_(and i like it like that, said i like it like that)_

  
  
  


atsumu’s touches have never shown rintarou mercy.

it’s painful, searing, fucking raw—forceful hips colliding against his navel and deft fingers bruising inner thighs and that damn _mouth,_ teeth grazing wounds on his collarbone running all those words, petty insults and the harsh mix of _fuck_ and _so good_ and _more, more suna—_

rintarou’s back digs into the metal locker, grating, and throws his head back with a guttural noise. lets the man work a hand on both of their flushed cocks, tugs at the friction. atsumu’s grip feels like knives in his hip bones: “come on, now, makin’ me do all the work?”

he’s glowing, in this sinister sort of way, hair curling damp against his forehead. atsumu has him pinned, knows he likes it like that—the burn of his hands skimming up to his throat and back down, all callous and bad habits under that touch.

rintarou hisses a moan.

he shouldn’t find it so addicting, he knows it. maybe it’s the post-shower steam of the locker room clouding his thoughts, or the adrenaline from the game that hasn’t been settled yet, but the way atsumu has him cornered, stroking him cruelly—it stings then it doesn’t, slowly gets softer, sweeter, that rintarou can only come back for more. 

so he does. he arches, lets himself. the way his chest rises to the dim ceiling and thighs tremble eagerly under atsumu’s hand says it all. 

atsumu notices, flashes a cruel grin. “ya want me to hurt ya this bad, baby?”

“fuck off,” he spits. rintarou only ever spares him words this bitter, but atsumu seems to soak in his insults like honey, canines ghost-white with every syllable blazing from rintarou’s lips. “you’re all damn bark, miya atsumu. that’s all you are.”

it’s a challenge. _touch me_ , rintarou looks at him through an icy hooded gaze, _prove me wrong._ make me break.

that’s all they’ve ever been: only ever meant to ruin one another, destruction every time knuckles brushed and lips collided. atsumu pushes, rintarou pushes back. they come together like an eye of a hurricane, a cycle of chaos.

for them, sex is nothing but war. 

this is a war that starts on the court: here is rintarou, steady and still. they face each other, but rintarou doesn’t quite look at him, or more so, looks through him. atsumu catches his gaze anyway, his teeth bared, muscles gleaned in sweat. he watches rintarou like predator to prey.

rintarou spends the whole game in the heat of atsumu’s gaze, the gaze scorches him all over until his calves quiver. he can practically hear atsumu’s thoughts, the tension thick and evil between them, atsumu’s thoughts in his mind, coursing from the tip of his spine to his toes in flames:

_the net is a tease, i search for you between the white lines, i hunt for you, watch your every move. our hands barely graze in the air. it burns me to the core. i want you. i want you. i follow you here, bring you here, have you here._

“c’mon, c’mon,” rintarou shoves atsumu back with the lasting strength of his knees. “fucking do what you said you were gonna do, miya.”

“god, all ya ever do is run yer fuckin’ mouth.” atsumu forces rintarou’s legs apart, brings himself between them, and tugs at rintarou’s jersey, soaked with sweat. “take the damn thing off, i can’t stand it.”

it’s because atsumu loves hickeys, draws them all over rintarou every time, over every square inch of skin he gets. rintarou gets impatient, the reds and purples and browns that bloom all over his bare chest and down that only serve to annoy him. he’s still got a hand over both of their lengths, too, but rintarou wants more. 

“now,” rintarou demands. “atsumu, _now_.”

“jeez, won’t even let a guy take his time,” atsumu retorts, but starts teasing rintarou’s hole anyway. he watches rintarou wriggle at his fingers. “see? now ya can’t take it.”

“the _lube_ , you fucker.”

atsumu clicks his tongue. fishing the tiny bottle out of his gym bag, he lathers it between his hands and tells rintarou to scoot up. rintarou feels the cool slick of it now, how it will always feel so unfamiliar no matter how many times they use it. he hates it but doesn’t complain about it, only because he knows atsumu will make him wait even longer. 

two fingers. rintarou clutches at atsumu’s shoulders, quivering. three, four. rintarou keels, _fuck fuck fuck_ as atsumu stretches him with less and less mercy. his hole is aching now, dripping, insidious. 

atsumu doesn’t give him a warning, never really does, but at this point, rintarou can anticipate it: the pause, the gauge, then the scalding, seismic shock of him entering. it’s pointless but rintarou claws at atsumu’s arms, shoulders, back, like an animal in heat, taking the unbearable pain. it’s a wave of this, at first, but then it’s steady, still, the whimper rintarou lets out straining into one long moan.

“ya missed me that much?” atsumu teases, sliding in and out. 

“for fuck’s s-sake,” rintarou quips, vibrating with every movement. “do you always have to talk this much?”

he can feel the bruises forming at lightning speed, but doesn’t care. atsumu’s grip is ruthless but so, so good, and the wrath of his body begins to ride pleasure all over rintarou, until he is caving in front of atsumu, taking his cock like he’s made for it. they’re some sort of sick wicked storm, getting off on each other’s pain, wanting to see each other break apart so desperately that they’d tear themselves apart doing it. 

atsumu’s got rintarou’s wrists pinned against the wall with one arm, the other holding him down by the side of his waist. it’s not supposed to be a fight, but rintarou makes it one, flinging his arms from atsumu’s hold and throwing them back over atsumu’s neck, tugging him down so they’re face to face, centimeters apart and wet mouths scraping.

“look at you,” atsumu pushes harder, the friction sending tremors throughout the both of them. “ya see yerself, suna? you _whore_.”

“shut _up_.”

“make me.”

“i hate you,” rintarou hisses, and bucks his hips harder. “i hate you,” rintarou moans, and tugs at atsumu’s hair, shuddering. “i, god, i fucking,” he cries, whines, so close, so painful, “you’re so fucking—”

he comes first. it spills all over the lower of atsumu’s abdomen, hot and gross and messy, but atsumu gets off on it too, that pervert. rintarou’s mid-orgasm, clenching uncontrollably around atsumu’s length, and atsumu lets out a groan that echoes off the lockers.

“rin, fuck, rintarou,” he rasps, throat harsh and dry, rocking back and forth into his orgasm. rintarou, overstimulated, keens another deep whine, clutching onto atsumu. he runs his fingernails against atsumu’s back, slices the skin. watches it bleed through his bleary eyes. atsumu looks best in this red. 

it’s over, they’re slowing down now, their rapid breaths getting out of sync. rintarou can feel atsumu’s chest heaving against his own, and crams his fingers between them to push the other man back. 

“get off of me,” rintarou grumbles, the high seeping away from his body. “you said you were gonna pull out, atsumu, jesus christ.”

atsumu huffs, wiping at his lower lip. his thumb carries dark red. “oh, c’mon, you liked it anyway.”

rintarou doesn’t stand up just yet, resting his head back on the metal behind him. it’s cool and hard. he closes his eyes, doesn’t know for how long, just knows he’s just thoroughly been fucked and probably won’t be able to make it to practice tomorrow. he then hears atsumu fumbling, zipping up his bag. 

rintarou opens one eye. “not showering?”

“hm, dunno,” atsumu hums, “up for another round?”

rintarou’s eyes shoot open into a glare.

atsumu laughs, a good-natured one this time. “until next time, then.”

“oh, you fucking wish.”

atsumu hums, and in the darkness rintarou can see his silhouette move back towards him, illuminated in the ghoulish neon glow of the room. he’s hovering over rintarou, and then, unexpectedly—presses his lips against rintarou’s forehead. it’s nothing sensual or suggestive or anything, but it makes rintarou’s chest flip for some reason and it’s awful, god awful what he’s feeling right now that he’s never felt before. 

“don’t think about me too much in the shower, yeah?” atsumu hums, pupils glittering. rintarou doesn’t even get to snark, can’t get the word out; he watches atsumu leave through the door, instead, unsure what to think of the phantom beating wildly in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OMlKUN) :)


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